A knock sounded at the open door, and a face appeared above the staircase. Mel. In jeans and a baseball cap. Fran softly snapped her fingers and sent Daphne a smirk full of challenge. Surely, Fran didn’t expect her to... What? Propose to Mel?
“Hello there,” he said, his hazel eyes solid on Daphne.
“Hello,” Daphne said.
“I smell smoke.”
“Oh, there was an incident,” Daphne said. “It’s all good. Won’t you have a seat?” She gestured to the couch.
Fran stood, the fingertips of one hand resting on the tabletop. “I burned her book,” she testified. “There, I said it. And good riddance.”
Mel tipped back his baseball cap. “Sense and Sensibility?”
“Yes, that one. Now she can get on with living. Daphne was about to make lemonade for us all.”
She was?
“I’m not really here for lemonade,” Mel said. To Daphne, he offered, “I’m sorry about your book.”
Daphne eyed the campfire fodder in the sink. “It’s...it’s...”
“Don’t encourage her,” Fran said, taking up her patented lounging position on the love seat, her legs crossed, her wide-bottomed pants spilling around her ankles. “Tell me about yourself. What’s your name?”
“Mel Greene,” Daphne said, busying herself with lemons, anyway. He’d love her lemonade once he tried it. “He owns a roofing company. Greene-on-Top.”
Fran raised her painted eyebrows. “Well, now. I underestimated you, Daphne.”
Mel sat on the edge of the couch. With the expansion sliders in, his knees and Fran’s crossed ones were about the length of a standard hardcover dictionary apart. “Yep,” he said. “You did.”
Fran gave Mel the same long, speculative look she’d given a few eligible men just before launching them at Daphne in Fran’s decades-long crusade to pair Daphne up with someone who was not “insane, insolvent or indisposed.”
“You two have met,” she said by way of invitation to Mel.
“I drove her home from the hospital the day of your accident. I appreciated her company. You might show a little gratitude, too.”
Fran brightened, smiled and then volleyed her first question. “You’re here to tell me how to treat my goddaughter?”
“It’s not right that you burned her book out of spite.”
Oh, heavens. Lemons rolled from Daphne’s hands onto the tile and she scrambled after them.
Fran’s smile stiffened. “Now, why would you say it was out of spite?”
“Why else would you destroy something she loves?”
“Perhaps out of love for her?”
“I think there are other ways of showing it.” A lemon bumped against his work boot. He tossed it to Daphne. She caught it one-handed, like a pro. They grinned at each other. “I believe I have a copy of Sense and Sensibility in storage, Daphne. In pretty good condition. You’re welcome to it.”
Later, Daphne attributed her next move to a fear for Fran, who would soon be dead, and for herself, who would soon be alone. And to the warmth in Mel’s gaze and his propensity to settle for anyone.
Still holding the lemon, she walked stiff and slow, like a bride, over to Mel and sat beside him at an angle so her knees grazed his. “Yes,” she said. “There’s something you should know, Fran. All those walks I took. I wasn’t alone. Mel and I have had some very, very good...talks.”
She slid her hand over his knee and applied gentle pressure. He froze.
Fran was absolutely riveted. “Well, Mel. What do you think?”
He turned to Daphne, a tense block. He was about to reject her. She knew that look well enough, but she was sure—yes, sure—she also saw something like regret or at least, something like a desire for a different outcome.
He could be persuaded.
She closed the distance and kissed him. A few years had passed since she’d planted one on a man, but it was much like riding a bicycle. His face was rough, his lips soft and springy. Daphne parted her lips and plowed deeper. Mel cued well and went at it so convincingly that Daphne scrambled for an exit plan.
She pulled back all at once, an audible suctioning apart.
“That,” Fran said, breathless, “was indecent.” She clapped her hands. “You, Mel, are moving on to the next round. We’re staying.”
FOR SOMEONE WHO didn’t clear his shoulder, Mel was hard-pressed to keep up with Daphne. Her flip-flops snapped out a mad beat on the asphalt walkway behind the RV park. She’d rushed from the motor home the second Fran had delivered her announcement, and he, like a dog on a leash, had followed.
“You might want to slow down,” Mel said. “I’ve been on a roof all day and my whole body is cramped.”
She slammed to a stop. To one side of the walkway was a culvert thick with tall, dried grass. On the other was a thin row of wild poplars that bordered backyards. A large dog set his paws against a wobbly fence and barked with intent.
“Come on,” Mel said. “We’d better keep moving. Slower, is all.”
They did, amid heavy sighs from Daphne. “I’m so sorry, Mel,” she said. “I don’t know... I was so desperate to keep Fran here... I’m sorry... I’ll go back and say I made it all up.”
“Just to be clear here. The plan to stop Fran from leaving is me?”
“No. At least, that wasn’t my intention. Only I hadn’t devised an actual plan, and I had this vision of me and Fran careening through those mountain roads and I... Well, you saw what I did.”
Felt it, too. His lips still tingled. He’d counted off the last five days and had come to the RV park to catch her in case she was leaving, maybe ask her out for a coffee, chat about his findings in Austenland. Not this.
“I don’t know that you’ve done anything wrong,” he said. “It was just unexpected.”
She looked up at him. She had a face like an emoji. Round and cheery and lively. “You’re at an emotionally vulnerable time,” she said. “You just came through a breakup not even a week ago. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you.”
“Daphne. I’m a grown man.” He paused. “As you can see.”
Her eyes widened behind her glasses. “Oh. Yes. Indeed.”
Was she teasing him? He hurried on. “And you’re right to want her off those roads. I grew up in the mountains. Let me tell you, everybody knows somebody who died out there.” He heard an edge of the old fear creep into his voice and clamped his mouth shut.
She studied him, and he hoped she didn’t ask for an explanation. He relaxed when she said, “What would you suggest, then?”
He scratched his neck. He’d taken a quick shower before coming, but it meant nothing in this heat. He was as sticky as a cinnamon bun, and not nearly as sweet smelling.
“Fran is already convinced that we are dating,” Mel said, “so all we need to do is continue to fake it. It wouldn’t be more than two, three weeks, off and on. Right?”
“I’d steal out in the evenings and pretend that I was meeting you.”
“What if she wants proof?”
“What